Neighborhood Watch

Every neighborhood has its rules.

In Maple Ridge Estates, the rules are enforced by Patricia Vance.

She's sixty-two years old, widowed for ten years, and she runs the homeowners association with an iron fist. Lawn height, fence color, trash can placement—nothing escapes her attention.

But the real inspections happen behind closed doors.

And every young husband in the neighborhood knows exactly what they entail.

I moved to Maple Ridge two years ago.

My wife Sarah chose it—good schools, nice houses, safe streets. I agreed because she wanted it and because the mortgage was manageable.

What she didn't tell me about was Mrs. Vance.

The first inspection happened three months after we moved in.

She showed up on a Tuesday afternoon.

I was home alone—Sarah at work, kids at school. Mrs. Vance knocked precisely at 2 PM, clipboard in hand, wearing a floral dress that did nothing to hide her size.

She's a big woman. Three hundred pounds, easily. Breasts like pillows, hips that fill doorways, a belly that precedes her into every room. She walks like she owns everything—because in this neighborhood, she does.

"Mr. Patterson." She pushed past me into the foyer. "I'm here for your quarterly inspection."

"I didn't know we had an inspection scheduled."

"You do now." Her eyes swept the room. "Your grass was half an inch too long last week. That's a violation."

"I mowed this weekend—"

"And your garbage cans are visible from the street. Another violation." She turned to face me. "That's two strikes, Mr. Patterson. You know what happens at three."

"A fine?"

She smiled.

"Something like that."

The inspection took an hour.

Every room, every closet, every corner. She found violations everywhere—a loose shingle, a dusty vent, a crack in the driveway I'd never noticed.

"That's twelve violations," she said, closing her clipboard. "Significant."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we need to discuss your... assessment."

She sat on my couch. Spread her massive thighs.

"Come here, Mr. Patterson."

Here's what I learned that day:

Patricia Vance doesn't just inspect houses. She inspects the husbands who live in them. Every young man in Maple Ridge has been through her "assessment." Every one of them has paid their fines on their knees.

"Your wife knows," she told me afterward, fixing her dress. "They all know. Most of them are fine with it—better me than some young thing who might steal their husbands."

"Sarah knows?"

"Ask her tonight." She patted my cheek. "And fix that shingle. I'll be back next month."

I asked Sarah that night.

She didn't deny it.

"Mrs. Vance has an arrangement with the neighborhood," she said, not meeting my eyes. "The wives accept it. In exchange, she keeps the property values up and the young women away."

"And you're okay with this?"

"I'm okay with you coming home to me every night." She finally looked at me. "Are you going to tell me you didn't enjoy it?"

I didn't answer.

We both knew the truth.

One year later

I've lost count of the inspections.

Monthly, usually, sometimes more if Mrs. Vance finds extra violations. She comes to my door, I let her in, and we spend an hour or two in the bedroom while my wife is at work.

But lately, things have changed.

The wives have started watching.

It began with Linda Chen.

Her husband David had an inspection on a Thursday. She came home early—accidentally, she claimed—and found him in bed with Mrs. Vance.

Instead of screaming, she sat in the corner and watched.

"I needed to see it," she told Sarah later. "Needed to understand what all the fuss was about."

After that, she requested to be present for every one of David's inspections.

Then other wives started asking too.

Now it's a ritual.

Every inspection, the wife is invited. Some decline—they'd rather not know the details. But most accept. They sit in corners, on chairs, sometimes right on the bed beside us, watching as Mrs. Vance takes what she's owed.

Sarah watched my inspection last month.

Sat in our bedroom armchair while Mrs. Vance rode me, her massive body blocking out the light. I could see Sarah's face over Mrs. Vance's shoulder—flushed, breathing hard, her hand between her own legs.

"Your wife is enjoying this," Mrs. Vance observed, not slowing down. "Perhaps she'd like to participate."

"Participate?"

"Come here, Sarah." Mrs. Vance gestured without looking. "Let me show you what your husband can really do."

Sarah joined us.

Not just watching—participating. Mrs. Vance directed us like a conductor, telling Sarah where to touch, how to move, when to take over.

"You've been neglecting her," Mrs. Vance told me while Sarah kissed her neck. "Too tired from work, too distracted. That ends now."

"I don't—"

"I'm not just here for myself." She grabbed my face. "I'm here to make sure this neighborhood functions. Happy husbands, satisfied wives, strong marriages. That's my job."

"By fucking all the husbands?"

"By reminding everyone what they're capable of." She pushed me toward Sarah. "Now show your wife what you learned."

Present day

The neighborhood Christmas party is in full swing.

Maple Ridge's annual tradition—every family gathered at the community center, kids running around, husbands manning the grill, wives sharing recipes.

And Mrs. Vance, holding court in the corner.

We all orbit around her. Every husband who's been through her inspections. Every wife who's watched, participated, discovered something new about themselves.

"She's looking at you," Sarah whispers, pressing against my side.

"She's always looking."

"She mentioned something earlier. About a... group inspection."

I freeze. "A what?"

"All the husbands. At once." Sarah's voice is thick. "She's been thinking about it for a while. A celebration. A culmination."

"And the wives?"

"We'd be there too." She looks up at me. "Would you? If I was there?"

I look across the room at Mrs. Vance. She catches my eye. Smiles.

"Yes," I hear myself say. "I would."

New Year's Eve

The group inspection happens at the Vance estate.

Twelve husbands. Twelve wives. One massive bed in the master bedroom, specially built for occasions like this.

Mrs. Vance is in the center. Naked, gloriously big, directing everything with the authority of a general.

"You," she points at David Chen. "Start with my left thigh. You," she points at me, "my right. The rest of you—your wives need attention first. No husband touches me until his wife is satisfied."

The wives are scattered around the room. Some on chairs. Some on the bed. Some standing, leaning against walls, watching with hungry eyes.

Sarah is beside me.

"Together?" she whispers.

"Together."

What happens next is beyond description.

A tangle of bodies. Wives and husbands and Mrs. Vance at the center, taking and giving and orchestrating. I lose track of where I end and Sarah begins. Lose track of whose mouth is on me, whose hands are guiding me, whose moans are filling the room.

Mrs. Vance comes dozens of times. So do the wives. So do we.

By midnight, we're all exhausted, tangled, satisfied in ways we've never been.

"Happy New Year," Mrs. Vance says, her voice hoarse. "I expect improvements on all your lawn maintenance this year. No excuses."

Someone laughs. Then everyone does.

January 2nd

I'm trimming my grass when Mrs. Vance walks by.

She pauses. Inspects. Nods.

"Perfect height, Mr. Patterson. No violations."

"Thank you, Mrs. Vance."

"Patricia." She smiles. "After everything, I think you can call me Patricia."

She walks on. Continues her rounds. The neighborhood watch never stops.

But now I understand what she's really watching for.

Connection. Satisfaction. The health of a community that functions, together, in ways outsiders would never understand.

I finish my lawn.

Sarah waves from the window.

And somewhere down the street, Patricia Vance knocks on another door.

The inspections continue.

They always will.